


Lay Us Down

by AmyTheEleventh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyTheEleventh/pseuds/AmyTheEleventh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A golden opportunity always comes when you least expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Us Down

It’s all terribly dull, he thinks. Dull, and predictable.

Of course his parents expect him to attend every formal event they host; his future spouse could be at any of them, and Queen Stilinski didn’t allow the ignoring of golden opportunities.

So the Prince sits on the golden throne beside his father’s and makes no attempt at hiding his contempt for the lavish ballroom, for the beautiful maids and handsome suitors that eye him covertly. The Prince groans and slouches deeper into his seat, ignoring his father’s sternly mumbled, “Genim.”

God, how he hated that name; a relative conquers _one_ kingdom and all of the sudden everyone’s offspring has to be named after him. Terribly overdone, he thought.

He spends the majority of the night displayed on his pedestal, his parents unwilling to let him out of their sight.

Blessedly, escape eventually comes; The King of the neighboring kingdom - Morlad, or something stupid like that - invites the King and Queen of Adrax for counsel. Of course the Prince is invited, but the young man senses opportunity and sits up to respectfully decline, much to the surprised delight of his mother and father; they no doubt welcome the change from the night’s previous behavior.

He watches them gracefully lope to a private quarters on the edge of the ballroom, then lets out a sound of satisfied disgust as he unceremoniously tears the golden crown off his head and stands, stretching. The large room goes suddenly quiet; all eyes are on him, whispers being passed that carry his name. He rolls his eyes, and carelessly waves his hand. He can practically hear the swooning. He can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes as he slips off the elevated platform and makes his way to the marbled balcony, about to relish in the alone time.

Except there’s already someone there; a dark figure is leaning against the railing, head tilted towards the stars. The Prince tries to identify the guest by the light spilling out from the ballroom, but the darkness has its corners wrapped around the stranger, and the Prince can only make out vague details.

“Reveal yourself to your Prince,” he drawls, not bothering to make it sound like an actual command. The stranger startles regardless, and turns so that his face is revealed by the golden light.

The stranger is unlike any of the boring individuals making of the sea of faces inside. His pale green eyes are wide with something resembling fear, but his jaw was set defiantly. His clothes are simple but elegant, complimenting his strong build, and his face is unshaven, something the Prince doesn’t see much of in the uptight corners of his castle. He’s obviously older than the Prince, but not by much.

“Prince Genim, my deepest apol-”

“Who are you?” The Prince cuts him off. “Why are you not inside enjoying the supposedly glamour with the rest of those simpletons?” He might have mistaken it, but the Prince swore he saw the stranger blush as he looked down.

“D-Derek Hale, your majesty,” the stranger says, not a stranger anymore. “These parties… I’m not particularly… good, at them. My sister had wished to attend, I accompanied her.” The Prince studies the man for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Uh, Stiles.”

“Excuse-”

“Call me Stiles,” the Prince says, cutting the man off again. “I absolutely despise the name Genim, and I despise my title as Prince.” His shoulders relax and his voice softens as he plods over to the railing where Derek was standing. “Someone outside my servants should know that. Spread the word if you’d like; I’d appreciate it, actually.” Stiles turns his gaze to the inky blue-black sky, the stars offsetting the dark like diamonds on satin. The Prince can tell his guest is tense beside him, so he turns his face towards him, mouth arranged into a loose grin. “No need to be so formal, Derek,” he says good-naturedly. Derek continues to say nothing, quite suspicious of the entire situation. Stiles sighs and gives up, turning around so he can lean his back on the railing beside Derek and fold his arms in front of him like they’re old friends rather than a prince and one of his subjects. “Do you speak or just stand there like a stone?”

“I- I speak,” he finally coughs out, going to lean against the rail again. Stiles smiles gleefully and follows his lead.

“Fantastic! This conversation was going to get nowhere with you staring at me, as flattered as I am.” Stiles laughs, and Derek follows suit, chuckling quietly. “So, Derek,” the younger man prompts, enjoying the way the name feels on his tongue. “What brings you to my parents’ terribly dull celebration of life and love and whatever other silliness?” Derek clears his throat and shifts restlessly.

“My uncle, he’s, uh, a knight in the King of Camelot’s court. He’s offered to train me, bring me up as a knight, but I, um… Not interested. My parents are trying to push me to it. That’s why I’m here. Peter received an invitation and passed it along to me. I didn’t want to come, but my sister Cora, she was, uh, over-ecstatic for the present. I couldn’t deny her this.”

“Huh,” Stiles said quietly. “What exactly are you, Derek?”

“Hm? Oh, I’m blacksmith,” he says, happiness creeping into his tone. Stiles’ ear perk up. “I love it. I love creating, working with my hands. I love feeling… needed. Like I’m doing something important.”

“Knighthood is important,” Stiles says, years of conditioning for Prince-hood seeping out through his cracks.

“Who would make the weapons, then?” Derek shoots back. “I’ll have you know I’m the most talented metal workers in this kingdom and others. My work is legendary. Your sword is one of mine, in fact.” Stiles suppresses a grin.

He wasn’t going to admit it, but he loved that sword. It was powerful, perfectly balanced for his lithe figure to handle. That was the only thing he liked about being a Prince – the training, watching over the knights, conditioning them; He loved to fight, and he was good at it. And a good weapon is half the fight.

“I owe you my life then, it seem,” Stiles concedes. “That sword is the finest thing I’ve yet to lay my hands on.”

“That should change.” Derek’s voice is below a whisper, and Stiles almost didn’t catch the quip.

“Pardon?” The Prince asks, cocking his head to the side in amusement. He loved the snarky ones.

“I said that should change,” Derek says, voice normal volume again, unembarrassed. “I’m working on a new piece; Forged from celestial steel. You may find use of it.”

“Celestial steel? From the Old Time?” Stiles scoffs, impressed. “That’s impossible; any remnants of the Old Time were destroyed in the Great Purge.”

“Is that what your tutors tell you?” Derek says with raised eyebrows, and Stiles pauses.

“Well-”

“My ancestors have ties to the Old Time,” Derek continues, uninterested in the Prince’s explanation. “The story goes that they escaped before the fire lit the outskirts of the kingdom. Took with them as much as they could carry, and those relics have been passed through my family since.” Derek pauses. “Of course, I’m the first to make any real use of them. My mother was livid, of course, but I think my father would have been pleased.”

“Would have been?” Stiles prompts.

Derek nods solemnly. “He passed away this last spring. That’s actually why I’m making the sword, as… In memoriam to him.” Derek’s voice goes tight at the end, and Stiles can’t stop himself from laying a hand on the man’s shoulder. Derek looks up, startled.

“If you’d allow me the honor, Derek… I’d like to use it.” Derek was frozen for a second, then smiled, just a bit.

“As you wish, sire… Stiles.” Stiles grinned, genuinely grinned, and for once he felt like a teenage boy and not a prince with responsibilities and duties to uphold.

The night was silent for a few moment, until the soft tinkering of an airy instrument floated its way outside, accompanied by the dreamy sighs of the guests inside. Stiles snuck a look at Derek, cringing at the thought of going back inside.

“It’d be a shame to let the night go to waste,” Stiles says quietly, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’d rather not spend my time inside with people who only like me for my status.”

“Who says I liked you?” Derek asks mockingly. Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up, even as he sees the gentle smile spread across Derek’s face.

“You did as much when you spoke to me as an equal. Not as a Prince.”

“And you despise being a prince,” Derek point out.

“Indeed I do,” Stiles concedes. “Dance with me.” Derek’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Pardon?”

“Are you deaf?” The Prince asks, no sting in the words. “I wish to dance with you. It’s only fair if I ask first.” Derek laughs like he can’t believe it, but holds his hand out regardless.

And they dance.


End file.
